


The Mystery Man

by doctorsdaughter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aiden Adler, Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, Big Brother Mycroft, Cooking, Drabble, F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Irene Adler - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, John has bad days, John is a Very Good Doctor, Mentioned Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Oneshot, Other, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, The Woman - Freeform, martin freeman - Freeform, matt bomer - Freeform, mentions of Lestrade - Freeform, naked male, possibly more? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5002819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorsdaughter/pseuds/doctorsdaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Woman, Gender-Swapped/Cisswapped, with a few of my own twists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mystery Man

Sherlock was bored. In fact, she was incredibly bored, because Johanna (who went by John but Sherlock would always call her Johanna if she was pissed) had gone off to who knows where -- she would probably know if she looked at the post it note left on the counter -- and left her alone to fend for herself. She had taken a shower, her long wavy hair was stuck to her head. She simply had nothing else to do. No case. Nothing.

If John knew any better, she would know that leaving Sherlock to fend for herself is basically leaving her to find whatever crisps or biscuits were in the cupboard, because for the love of God, she could not work any type cooking machinery. She had a 162 IQ but in the kitchen, she didn’t know a stove from a fridge. 

It was an entire day of fending for herself before John came home, humming a tune.

“Where have you been?” Sherlock asked, her dark blue silk robe wrapped around her.

“I had to go to Dublin,” John shrugged, whisking past her as she began to make dinner. Sherlock look at her in wonders. How did she manage all of those devices?

“I was left here alone with nothing to eat!” Sherlock said, borderline whining. 

John rolled her eyes and turned around, “Did you check the fridge, dear?”

“Of course I checked the fridge--” Sherlock huffed, walking over and opening the door. There was a leftover food with directions John had left in her curly handwriting. 

Sherlock ran her hands through her hair in exasperation. How did she miss that?

John just laughed under her breath, continuing to cook.

“We have a case, by the way,” John said as she put dinner in the oven, clapping off the excess flour.

“How did you come by a case that I didn’t?” Sherlock asked, now starting to get annoyed with the fact that John could apparently do anything, include find her cases.

“How many times have I told you to check your phone at least once a day?” John said with a hint amusement, throwing her the iPhone.

She had 12 text messages.

**From John:** Going to Dublin for the day, be back tonight! x  
 **From John:** Oh by the way, I left you something to eat.

There were several other ones depicting how bored John had been, when finally one caught Sherlock’s eye.

From John: Just got a ping from your website. From your brother. He wants to see us. 

“Mycroft? Really?” Sherlock asked, walking back into the kitchen where she was overwhelmed by the smell of casserole. She put her (still) wet hair up on top of her head in a bun, watching John as she checked the casserole. She would never take anything out of the oven until it was perfect.

She sighed exasperatedly, looking at the woman in front of her. “Yes,” she said firmly. “And we are going to see what he wants.” 

“Erm, can’t, big caseload,” Sherlock knew this wouldn’t last, and would only anger John. But she was hot when she was angry.

As predicted, John looked up from where she was dishing out the casserole. “And what caseload would that be dear, trying to break the next hundred on your tobacco ash mission?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. Low blow. 

“Fine. We’ll meet with Mycroft. But I swear if this comes with a knighthood--”

“We’ll leave at the instance,” John assured, sitting down.

Sherlock sat down with John, who somehow managed to eat despite the fatal chemicals all around them. The air comfortably silent, with nothing else much to say, leaving Sherlock to look at his wife. Her blonde hair was always up in a tight bun like they had been forced to wear it in the army. The only time she ever saw John without the bun was when Sherlock pulled it out of its deadlock, whereas Sherlock always wore her long curly hair without any type of product, letting it lay as it chose.

She started eating, carefully moving a test tube away from her plate, and soon her plate was clean, causing John to look up, amused. 

“Hungry?”

“As I said, I’ve had nothing to eat today.”

~*~

The next morning, a car arrived for the two women, at the bright and early time of nine o’ clock. While this would have been a normal time, for Mycroft and John, Sherlock was still sleeping soundly, and only John opening the curtains caused her to fall out of bed.

“What’re--” Sherlock asked, ready to curse at the woman she so hated at the moment for waking up. 

“Mycroft’s car is here,” John said, throwing clothes at Sherlock, who simply brushed them away and opted for her nightgown, just to piss her brother off.

“You can not go to 10 Downing Street in your nightgown,” John said, but knew it was a loss cause.

“Watch me!” she called back, smirking at this opportunity.

John just shook her head and followed, and prayed to whatever God there was that this didn’t turn into a huge fight started by repressed issues.

~*~

Sure enough, as soon as Mycroft walked into the room, seeing his sister in a raunchy nightgown barely covered by a blanket, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“Why are we here?” Sherlock said, adjusting the blanket as to have some dignity.

“A man,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock’s eyes raised. “About time you admitted you preferred the same sex, Mycroft. Welcome to the club.” John covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Mycroft closed his eyes, looking for any patience he might have. “A man that has gotten in touch with the Royal Government and said he has--pictures.”

“I assume these pictures are of someone of importance.”

“Yes, and the man got in touch, saying he only wanted the for insurance.”

“Power play,” John and Sherlock said together.

“Exactly,” Mycroft said. “Now is that enough of importance to get you to put clothes on?”

“Why should I, when things are so much more fun this way?” Sherlock asked, smirking as her brother grimaced.

~*~

Eventually Sherlock did put clothes on, and started to look through her closet, going past the elaborate costumes she wore when undercover. Finally, she found a runner’s outfit, and put it on, her long messy hair slicked back into a ponytail.

“Going running?” John asked, amused.

“Battle armour,” Sherlock explained, obviously expecting John to get it with just those two words. John nodded, pretending she did.

“Mycroft gave us the address of the Aiden Adler’s house, but we’ll need a way in,” Sherlock said, pacing the flat. 

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re posing as a runner,” John said, as Sherlock never exercised, and was actually surprised she even owned sporting clothes. 

“Muggings happen most often to runners,” Sherlock said. “You’re going to mug me.”

John raised her eyebrows, impressed and speechless at this plan. Before she could protest, she was thrown stereotypical clothing of a mugger, and Sherlock was off to order a cab.

~*~

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” John said, who was now wearing all black, including a black ski cap which caused her to abandoned her bun, and instead make a braid out of her blonde hair.

“Okay, knock me down,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry?”

“Muggers will knock someone down against a wall, we have to leave some trace of physical injury. So knock me down.”  
John halfheartedly pushed Sherlock, only causing her to stumble a bit. She looked at John expectantly.

“You were in the war!”

“I was a medic!”

“Not according to how you say you killed people--”

“I had bad days!” On days, John shoved Sherlock enough to knock her into the brick wall, causing a scrape, and what would be a nasty bruise on her scalp.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry--” John said, rushing over to the woman who was crumpled on the ground. Before she could get to her, Sherlock jumped up, blood trickling down the side of her face.

“Brilliant, John,” she said, followed by a kiss. She patted some gravel on her face. “Perfect,” she said, taking out John’s compact mirror (pickpocketting John was incredibly easy).

“This is brilliant, let’s go.”

“Go where?” John asked, still mostly confused about what had happened in the last five minutes. She followed Sherlock to a large house on the road, where Sherlock motioned for her to take off the ski cap, and soon John was just a peer would would have seen it all.

Sherlock knocked on the door, immediately faking tears.

“Hello?” a male voice came through the speaker.

“H-Hello, I--uh--I was jogging and this--person--mugged me, I think--I’m, confused--” Sherlock made sure to make the scalp injury seen.

“I can call the police--would you like to wait here?”

“Please--I--thank you, thank you so much,” Sherlock said. There was a buzz and both John and Sherlock were let inside. Sherlock kept up the act, while John pretended to tend to her.

“Hi, I’m her friend, I saw it all happen, god--do you have a first aid kit?” the man nodded, leading her into the kitchen, and Sherlock to the study.

Sherlock sat dabbing at the blood on her face, when a different male cleared his throat. She turned to look, and saw a man standing there in pants. And only pants.

“Ms. Holmes, I presume?” he asked.

Anyone who saw this man would be distracted by what he said. They would be too focused on the crystal blue eyes that looked as though they could into your soul. He had an almost too perfect smile, one that would never reveal if it was genuine or if he was playing you, which was complemented by his cheekbones and jawline, which might as well have been chiseled out of stone. Everything about this man, from his jawline to his muscles, were all reminders of the Greek God Zeus himself.

Sherlock couldn’t care less about what was probably many women’s dream man. This man knew something, and obviously was careless, or trying to distract her by barely wearing any clothes. This was working a little more than Sherlock would want. She stared for a minute, shaking her head as much the wound would allow, and looked down.

“Thank you for allowing me to use your home while we wait for the authorities,” she said, her phone behind her, texting Lestrade:

_In distress DON’T COME_

“Of course,” he said with an American accent than many people would swoon at. “Please make yourself home--Miss Sherlock Holmes.” He straddled her legs (and God his Polo perfume was overwhelming). She looked up at him. “Who are you?”

“Well I’m sure you know the answer to that question, Miss Holmes. I’m Aiden Adler,” he said. “I provide sexual favors for people willing to pay,” he said, the proximity between them didn’t seem to matter.

“For a considerable amount, I’m sure,” Sherlock said, trying to keep their eyes connected, and not focused on anything else.

“There are always ways, Miss Holmes. I’m paid with information,” He said, 

“Information that would cripple the government,” Sherlock said.

“In oh so many ways.”

Sherlock was about to answer when a “Good God!” interrupted their banter, a baffled John trying to figure what the hell a man was doing on Sherlock. 

“Oh hello John, this is my girlfriend, John,” Sherlock said, regaining control of the conversation as she strolled around the room, whispering a follow my lead to John as she took a napkin and pressed it on the wound. Ow. She would probably properly have to get that checked.

“I do love threesomes,” Aiden smirked, sitting down, his legs spread out, John immediately looking away, giving him the satisfaction he didn’t get with Sherlock.

“Could you put something on? A blanket? Or a towel, maybe?” John asked, finding the pattern on the ceiling incredibly interesting. 

Sherlock rolled her eyes and threw Aiden her sports jacket. “What would an American want with the Royal Government?”

“What does anyone want with the Royal Government? To control it? Oh, James Moriarty sends his love.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes at that problem she had temporarily deleted. She looked at John, asking for a glass of water for her splitting headache.

“So tell me, what are we going to do now?” Aiden asked from his chair. “You can’t have the information I need, and I’m growing bored at staring at your pretty face and your obviously lover’s face as well. So while this has been a pleasure--”

Sherlock smirked as the fire alarms went off, watching Aiden’s head snap to the mirror. “Fantastic,” she said.

“Fire always brings out what is most important in us, wouldn’t you agree Mr. Adler?” she asked, and walked over, taking the mirror off it’s place, showing the wall.

Sherlock was unfazed by the ringing of the alarms, which stopped eventually thanks to the open windows and waving about John had done. 

“Four code password, can’t be your birthday, definitely can’t be of anything clever because you open your door for strangers for money--”

Aiden came up behind her, and Sherlock quickly moved, and had him and the anesthetic he had on the floor, kicking it away, keeping one foot on his chest. 

“See? Nothing clever.”

“Clever enough. I’ve already shown you,” Aiden smirked from his position under Sherlock’s running shoe.

Just then Sherlock felt a prick on her ankle. Dammit, and fell down as well, giving Aiden the advantage. “Sorry dear, have to protect my assets.”

He quickly punched in a number, grabbed the phone, and raced out of the house, past John, who immediately went in to check on Sherlock.

“Fuck!” she yelled, running over to Sherlock. “What did he do to you?”

“He--he put an anesthetic on my foot, I can’t move,” Sherlock said, but that obviously wasn’t what was bothering her.

“I had him--”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” John soothed, gently picking up Sherlock. “You forgot one thing coming in here, dear. Men are pricks.” 

This got a laugh from Sherlock and John slowly carried her down the stairs and out of the house where a taxi was waiting. John slowly put Sherlock in the taxi, getting in herself.

“Now let’s get you to a hospital where people can really look at you,” John said.

Sherlock was half asleep, mumbling, no, no doctors--and John just caressed her long hair. It was moments like these, after high chases and people running about and all the excitement (which was fun), but John preferred the moments where Sherlock curled under her arms, half asleep and whispering for no doctors. This was the woman she loved. Not the woman in the crazy hat, not the woman who needed to impress everyone. The woman behind it all. Her woman.


End file.
